Cédric Fabre - Marseille Noir

“Chief, for Radhia I’d go all the way to the North Pole. When do I leave?”

The Comoros. Hahaya Airport. On the tarmac, a man is holding up a sign with my name on it. When I introduce myself, he asks me to follow him without saying who he is. We don’t go the same way as the other passengers.

Now we’re in an air-conditioned room with leather armchairs. The VIP lounge. The man takes my passport, goes out, and comes back. He had it stamped. A smiling girl comes to ask me if I want a glass of fresh orange juice, saying: “Welcome to the Comoros, sir.” I thank her. They bring my suitcase back into the room.

“Let’s go,” the man says.

I still don’t know his name. A chauffeured car is waiting for us. We get in the back. I watch the landscape go by in silence. A half hour later we’re in Moroni, the capital. We park in a hotel lot and get out.

“Lieutenant, leave your suitcase here and we’ll go for lunch.”

We’re at the Itsandra Beach Hotel’s restaurant, facing the sea. Young people are playing beach volleyball on the sand. We move to a private spot in a corner of the terrace. While waiting for the waitress to take our orders, my host finally opens his mouth and introduces himself: “My name is Bam, Lieutenant Bam.”

“I suppose that’s a nickname,” I retort.

“Just the initials of part of my real name, which goes on for miles. My name is Bourhane Ahmed Mohamed Kardjae Mzimba Ntsi.”

“Right, I get it,” I say, laughing.

But Bam doesn’t laugh, he stares at me.

“Lieutenant, I have the feeling you’re not exactly thrilled to see me here in the Comoros!”

“Listen, you have nothing to do with it, but your country is exasperating. Our president died and we’re quite capable of investigating his death without France’s help. And you have the nerve to tell us that interference — Françafrique — is over with? Who are they kidding? Lieutenant, if. ”

He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, as a lovely waitress comes over to take our orders. Bam goes on nonetheless, really furious that France is interfering in the internal affairs of a former colony. I listen to him in silence.

“Listen, brother,” I finally say, “you may not like France’s foreign policy and I get it. But you and I are in the same boat here. We have to find out if the president was murdered or if he really died of a heart attack. Frankly, I couldn’t care less. I accepted this mission so they would give me another investigation in Marseille. To learn who knocked off the love of my life. Period. So let’s get down to work right away. Now, regarding your criticisms, why don’t you tie them up in a little bundle, take them to the French Embassy, and give them to the ambassador who will forward them on to the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, okay? Bon appétit, brother.”

Bam opens his eyes wide and smiles. After the meal, he says: “Either we stay here to work, or we go to my office. Which do you want?”

“Here, no question.”

He lays a file down on the table. I move my chair over and sit next to him. He explains the situation: “As you know, the president came back from a trip in the morning and seemed in good health. He died around three a.m., from a heart attack, we’ve been told.”

“I suppose there was no autopsy?”

“No. He was buried the same day, of course.”

“And who might want him dead, in your opinion?” I ask.

“Besides the people of this country, you mean? There’s no shortage of enemies: the country is going through a big crisis. Anjouan, one of the Comoros islands, seceded and considers itself an independent state, although it’s not recognized by the international community. The president sent in the army to bring the island back into the fold, but the separatists beat him badly. The president demoted General Mkouboi, the head of the operation. And of course that made him so mad he resigned. The separatist movement is supported and armed by the far right in France. And now it seems there’s oil off the Comorian coast. The president supposedly gave the drilling market to the Ukrainians, to the dismay of the Russians. Then a colorful character comes on the scene: Colonel Madjomba. He controls the army now. As soon as the president’s death was reported, he fanned his troops out all over the city. He’s a friend of the famous French mercenary Bob Denard.”

“And who’s taking over during the interim?”

“According to the constitution, it’s supposed to be the president of the high council of the republic, a certain M’hadjou Ben M’sa. But as he was going home after the president’s funeral, his driver lost control of his car. Died on the spot. So the interim went to Madjid Ben Mawlana, the oldest member of the high council.”

“And do you know anything about this man?”

“Well, he lived in Marseille for a long time and had kids there. He was a dishwasher in a restaurant on the Vieux-Port and after twenty-six years he was promoted to fish scaler. Comes back home and goes into politics. When they wanted to give him a ministerial position he refused and asked to be appointed to the high council, just three months ago. To sum up: when the president of the republic dies he’s replaced by the president of the high council of the republic, who has sixty days to organize elections. If he dies too, he’s replaced by the oldest member of that institution who takes his place with the same mission. But I have a feeling he has no intention of giving up power anytime soon.”

“Well, lieutenant, they’re really at each other’s throats, aren’t they? The problem is, we don’t have much time,” I say.

“So how do we start?”

“With coffee. It clears out the cobwebs. I’ll go get it.”

I walk to the bar. A man is drinking pastis and smoking a Gauloise, as he leans against the counter. I order two coffees. I’m about to go back but I turn around for a moment. Something strikes me about this man. I return to Bam.

“You see that guy at the bar. ”

“The one who’s leaving?”

“Jesus, quick. We’ve got to follow him.”

Bam gets up without saying a word, picks up his things, and pays the check fast. We run to the car. We see the man get into a 4x4 parked opposite the Itsandra mosque.

“Why should we follow him?” Bam asks as he turns the key in the ignition.

“Because he has a scar on his left cheek.”

“That’s not a crime here, you know,” he laughs.

“Very funny. Come on, go!”

We discreetly follow the man with the scar. He takes a path lined with coconut trees and turns left. And we lose sight of him. We stop and get out. Suddenly, a car comes up and stops right behind ours. A young man in Bermuda shorts, stripped to the waist, gets out with a gun in his hand. He shoots off a round and we flatten ourselves on the ground.

“You’re dead, motherfuckers! Mind your own business!”

I see him taking aim at Bam so I whip out my gun and shoot a bullet into his forehead. Welcome to my mother’s country. In my head I can still hear the young man’s words; there was such a contrast between this tropical landscape and his voice. We had something in common: a Marseille accent. He’s dead, with his Kalashnikov in his hands and white, wet sand on the soles of his sandals. He was one of the young people playing volleyball on the beach; the little prick was watching us. He’s wearing a bag slung across his shoulder. Bam opens it and waves his papers in the air: a French passport. Our young man is from Marseille. As for the man with the scar, he’s still nowhere to be found.

“Thanks, you saved my life,” says Bam.

“No thank yous between us, lieutenant.”

“I know who the man in the 4x4 is.”